


After this.

by triesquid



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bobby is a poet., Bobby is so much more than he seems., Character Study, Gen, POV Bobby Singer, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-10
Updated: 2012-12-10
Packaged: 2017-11-20 20:29:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/589343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triesquid/pseuds/triesquid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bobby is unmoored.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After this.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a deep and abiding love of Bobby: his snark, his wisdom, his no-nonsense attitude, his love of Sam and Dean, his devotion, his research skills, his random ability to read Japanese. So, I kinda explored why Bobby might be, ya know, fluent in Japanese.

Bobby Singer, ~~after he killed~~ after the _death_ of his father and the death of his mother, long after his first realization that monsters were real and always wore a loved-feared face and that his mother was still frail and mortal and as easily worm-food as anyone else—as heroic and saintly as she had been (although, really, his brains supplies words like “enabling” and phrases like “why didn’t you just leave the bastard?” but he knows that it’s never, ever, ever that easy—so, yeah, saintly instead).

Yeah, after this.

After this, Bobby decided, on some whim that he never understood, to go and study.  Literature, languages, comparative and ancient and world.  He finds himself writing Japanese death-haikus (in Japanese, thank you very much) and resolutely denies that they’re ~~about the night his father died~~ ~~left~~ about the monsters in his closet and the smell of cordite and copper in the air when they’re stood down with righteous (terrified) anger (survival instincts).

He denies that he writes about his mother too.

And, he’s good.  Very good.  Like get-a-Masters-in-poetry-and-get-a-real-job-teaching-other-people-to-write-poetry-too good.

It’s a very wordy good.

But, he doesn’t like the “publish or perish” mentality, the bickering politics, the faculty meetings that go on and on and on (and really makes him itch for ~~a gun~~ ~~the smell of cordite and copper thick in his throat~~ something to throw because half the faculty want what’s best for their students—though what that “best” is no one knows—and the other half is all about ambition and the other half—and, yes, there’s three halves here—wants nothing more than power and sycophant followers, tiny copies of academic replication/perfection) and leaves.

Goes back to the salvage yard with all of its ghosts and memories and the constant smell of decaying metal so close to the smell of blood ~~spattered on white cabinets and checkered floors~~.

He’s unmoored.

Until. 

Until a woman who knew nothing of his life, his childhood, his foray into academia loves him just for him and his gruffness and his temper and his tendency to drink too much and to sulk about in the salvage yard talking to those ghosts that haunt his memory at way-past-fucking-late at night.

She just loves him.

Then, there are pies and smiles and the smell of fresh-baked bread that overrides all the memory-smells that Bobby has been living with his entire life.

Bobby writes her sonnets.

And—it’s good.

But—and isn’t there always a “but”—then there’s screaming and begging and black-oil eyes that hold nothing of who he loved. 

And blood.

So much blood.

He’s unmoored again.  Lost in the smell of blood, of gun oil, of salt and lighter fluid, of burning decay.

That time of happiness becomes a slim volume lost amongst books about demons and witchcraft and incantations and how to kill ~~your father~~ monsters without getting killed yourself.

He again has use for those research skills that were once honed to a keen edge and all of those dusty languages he picked up once upon a time.  It’s all he is.

(He resolutely denies upon pain of idjit-head-smacks that he absolutely does not write poetry.  But he does.  About bright eyes gone dark with demon possession.)

And then there are two young boys that he ~~has thrust upon him~~ ~~\--~~   _ ~~inherits~~_   ~~\--~~ adopts as his own who have never known a life that didn’t have fear and lose intricately woven about it (which isn’t true, he always has to remind himself, Dean—once upon a time—had a life that was filled with his mother making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, of warm hugs, and murmured reassurances that angels were watching over him.  A life that was like that slim volume that Bobby doesn’t look at or touch or acknowledge.  Ever.).

And, Bobby finds that he wants to give those boys as many moments of peace and just-being-kids that he can.  Damn ~~his~~ their father for taking that away from ~~him~~ them.


End file.
